


In Uthenera Na Revas

by azri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Character Death, Dark!Lavellan, F/M, Post Trespasser, Trespasser Spoilers, everyone dies basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azri/pseuds/azri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a Keeper's job to protect her people from the Dread Wolf. Even if it means destroying the world. </p><p>For the DA kink meme. Post-Trespasser, a broken Lavellan decides that Thedas does not deserve the few years of peace Solas bestowed upon them and vows to destroy the world herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Because I am not a monster. If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort” Solas’s parting words, before he left her on the ground one final time - were quiet and almost, almost gentle. His words also couldn’t be more _wrong_. 

She laughs, then, at the face of the God that had indeed betrayed her people. She laughs because Elves like her would never die in comfort. Before Solas’s empire descends, when the world would be torn asunder with strife and blood, the elves will die the way they lived – Hunted, persecuted, and slaughtered like animals.

But then again, he, who is of the elvhenan and one of the Evanuris, probably feels more of a kinship to the humans who now reigns over Thedas. On the other hand, they have never been his people at all. They are shemlen to him and nothing more, the blatant reminders of his mistakes.

She laughs all the way to the exalted council, flings Divine Justinia’s writ on their faces before disbanding the Inquisition. Confusion and rage explodes around her as the shems screams and shouts for themselves to be heard - always screaming, always demanding, always so _afraid_. And yet she is a beacon of calm amongst the din, even though what was left of her left arm is a world of pain and dried blood still clings to where Cassandra’s sword had done the job her heart didn’t deign to do.

Unlike them, she knows exactly what to do.

 

***********************************************

 

What was left of her inner circle converges around her the very next day - anxious and eager to begin on what was to be their second attempt at saving the world - and she wouldn't have had it any other way. 

She poured each of her advisors a drink, as she was wont to do during their days in Skyhold. Each goblet they sipped took them back to countless days and nights they had done this – maps strewn about and hands pointing, voices raised and lowered as they fell back into the hard-won camaraderie they had forged. She is glad to have them like this, even as she leaves her own goblet untouched.

Deathroot is tasteless, colorless, and most importantly painless. _Like going to sleep_ , Keeper Deshanna had taught her. She was also the one who taught her to extract and powder them, how to mix it in water for hunters and scouts too mangled by shem swords and pitchforks to survive the coming winter. 

_Small mercies, da’len. Sometimes this is all a Keeper could do for her people._

She thinks now of how her Keeper must have died, on the edges of shem spears and ugly cries, desperate and afraid as plate mails emblazoned in sunbursts advanced, advanced without mercy. Leliana had comforted her then, whispering old elven dirges and telling her that she’d done her best, that there was nothing else she could have done. And she had believed her, for elves has never had peace. Would _never_ have peace. Her only wish at that time had been for her to be there – So she could tip the deathroot into her keeper’s lips, into the sweet milk of the da’lens under her care before the shems arrived.

And so this is, too, a small mercy. The Inquisition has fought and fought against everything, against the very world they are always trying to save. How much longer would it be until the faith in Leliana’s heart breaks again, or until Cassandra’s resolve is whittled down by a world that insists to be treacherous? How much longer until the kindness in Josephine’s eyes is dimmed, how long until the demons in Cullen’s mind overtakes him completely? 

She hasn’t the heart to find out, not anymore. And so they drank as they talked, and soon, they fell. 

Only Leliana seemed to notice anything was amiss as her eyes widened in realization, in panic, before it slowly, slowly dimmed. She held her hand throughout it all, because Leliana was probably the only one who would understand. In the end, the Divine’s eyes fluttered closed for one last time, the peace in her face more beautiful than any painting of Andraste could ever be. Cassandra is slumped against her chair, a tenderness she rarely saw softening the harsh angles of her faces. Josephine, ever so impeccable and delicate, lies tranquil in her repose – Like a butterfly alighting in her hand when before it constantly fluttered and fluttered. And Cullen, her dear Commander, who had always worked so, so hard – finally rests. 

If the wine had been her token of mercy, the knife was another thing entirely. Sturdy and cold, a simple carving of Mabaris inlaid with metal on the hilt – It was Ferelden to the bone. And had, in fact, been hanging from the sash of Arl Teagan Guerrin of Ferelden until this very morning. Sera had been all too glad to nick it from the ambassador, toasting her raucously with the very same wine before she slumps against her shoulders. It had been straightforward and simple, just the way the girl had always liked it. 

Her friends deserves to die in peace, surrounded by people they trust and love. These people, though, will die with swords and flames and fear in their heart. So she slams the knife – deep into the wood one last time. One last mission for the Inquisition. The guards will find her friends in the morning, along with the proof that Ferelden ambassadors had poisoned the Divine and her honor guards in the wake of a failed Exalted Council.

She kisses each one of them on the lids, the last of the warmth alighting on her lips, tucks an errant curl behind Josephine’s ears and righted Cullen’s mantle, before she closed the door behind her council one last time.


	2. Chapter 2

The Well had been vague at best, but she has become quite adept at traipsing its maze of disembodied voices, and the trail of murmurs points South – Beyond the Dales and the Arbor Wilds. She slipped by the guards before first light, face hooded and her staff switched to a plain Dalish birch, a simple elven mage rendered wandering traveller with the disbanding of the Inquisition. 

She made her way through the Dales without incident, trading her Imperial Warmblood for a Halla once she was in the tall grass of the plains - At once feeling more at home than she ever had been in the years she rode that gilded saddle. The murmurs inside her escalated, growing restless and shrill as her mount galloped through silent ruins and foliages that grew denser and denser. And with each mile, she sheds layer by layer the stifling mantle they had swaddled her in. Prisoner, Knife-ear, Herald, chosen of Andraste, your grace, Inquisitor - 

_Vhenan._

When she steps into the small sanctuary, when the voices inside reaches a wild crescendo, she is finally herself, and nothing more. She is Ellana Lavellan. First of her clan, a Keeper now that Deshanna is gone. And deep within the ancient structure, another voice calls out to her. 

The orb opens in her hand like a flower, spilling tendrils of light that echoes of her missing vallaslin as it branches and sinks deep into her body, branding her anew with fire and light and power. And she remembers her Keeper’s words from so long ago, above the searing pain of the blood written into her skin.

_Mythal protects. And so shall you, Da’len. So shall you protect your people._

The voices are almost deafening now, and she felt more than heard the thunderous roar outside the sanctuary’s threshold. The beast is all that she remembers it to be, ancient and terrifying and majestic, and yet now it bows before her – scales warm and alive beneath her hands as she mounts it and it feels right. 

Mythal protects. And now she shall, too. 

 

*************************************************

 

She went for the clans first. 

When the first conflict breaks, when the nations of Thedas cast their first stones and loosen their first arrows, she knows that the Dalish would be the first to die – Caught between things they are never any part of. It is just the way it is. 

So she descends upon their camps astride her guardian – the beating of its wings disturbing Halla and children alike as the clans cries for Gods that were never there. But the fear is necessary, for the Dalish had always lived in fear and ordinary words would not be enough for them to believe. She weaves for them a story from magic and light, of how the Dread Wolf intends to destroy their people once more. 

But she is hope, she is resistance, she is everything she wished her clans had been given during the dark days of her childhood and soon enough her people rallied around her. They clamor and raise their bows and staves, vallaslin proud on faces weathered by Ferelden's chill to Antiva's scorching sun.

After all, it is a Keeper’s duty to protect their clan from the Dread Wolf. 

 

**************************************************

 

She went to Briala second, because she is ruler of Orlais in all but name only and through the years since she had given her the throne, they had become something akin to friends. But she also went to Briala because like her, she is a woman who has known the taste of betrayal. 

The Marquis seemed unfazed as she slips out from the shadows of her room, acknowledging her with a tired nod and a gesture towards the balcony. Briala’s weariness is warranted, given the tension hanging over the Capitol like a shroud. Even from the snippets she heard, flitting between the shadows of the imperial Palace, she knew that the Divine’s death has hit Orlais hard, and even now its infinity of chantry bells tolls for the loss, the sunburst throne cold and empty inside its great cathedral. Added with the failing talks with Ferelden ambassadors who would not yield, Orlais hangs in the precipice of another great war they cannot afford. 

“Your _Fen’Harel_ contacted me” Briala's Orlesian accent sharpens the edges of his name, a fitting tribute. 

She nods, already expecting something like this. Anyone would be a fool to discount Briala, to discount Orlais from their game, and her wolf is anything but a fool

“We work…separately”

“I know you do” The woman beside her laughs, an undercurrent of many things in the bitter sound. But only one thing is important - she _understands_. 

“He took the Eluvians, and half of my agents”

“Did he tell them that none of them will survive it? This…plan of his”

“I suspected as much. It was too perfect, what he said. Too easy. Anytime someone says they will take care of you, of your people…you shouldn’t believe them“

But many did. _Too_ many, from the pained look in Briala’s face. 

She smiled, then, because she too, had believed him the first time around, just as Briala had trusted her lover before she razed Val Royeaux’s alienage to the ground. But not now. Never again. And together, they will take back their people from the Dread Wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I was super-late at realizing that Solas essentially killed Felassan. Does Briala ever know of this? ;___;


End file.
